


The boy is not refined

by blakefancier



Category: Drake's Venture (1980)
Genre: F/M, M/M, Reincarnation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-26
Updated: 2011-04-26
Packaged: 2017-10-18 16:30:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/190904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blakefancier/pseuds/blakefancier
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Francis Drake wants Thomas. Thomas says he doesn't want Drake. Francis is patient, he can wait.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The boy is not refined

Francis Drake was a connoisseur of beauty. From homes to cars to paintings to people: he surrounded himself with it. It made life bearable.

Lucky for him, he was rich, he could afford it.

He could afford anything and everything. And so he bought anything, and everything. Except Him: the bane of his life, the thorn in his side, and the love of his life. See? He could be honest with himself. Those past lives were good for something.

He walked through his beautiful home, on a beautiful island that was all his, and sat down in his refined study and turned on the state-of-the-art surveillance screen.

Ah, yes, there was no denying that Himself looked very nice in blue silk and velvet, and looked even better furious.

Francis was not a bad man—well, he certainly didn't view himself as such. He'd never kidnapped a person before now. Nor held them hostage. Not in this incarnation, at least. But how could he resist? How could he deny himself the beauty that was Thomas Doughtie?

Beautiful Thomas: the love of his life.

All Francis had to do was convince him of that.

Perhaps he should release Thomas into the seraglio. Wouldn't that be entertaining?

*****

Watching was not his favorite thing in the world; he was a man of action. But he had to admit there was wisdom in watching, in waiting, like a hunter stalking his prey.

The beautiful men and women of his harem stayed clear of the volatile Thomas. Of course they did. How could they understand his anger, his frustration, at his captivity, when they themselves were willing participants?

He was tempted to order Thomas to his rooms, to put an end to the anticipation burning in his belly. But the end of the anticipation might be an end to it all. And so he called for one of his favorites instead: a blonde with skin the color of bronze and a curvaceous body. The very antithesis of Thomas. Her name was Grace and she was graceful, and so very, very eager. Her mouth opened under his, her hands slipped under his clothes, and her body arched against his.

Her skin was warm and tasted of talcum powder.

For a moment, he forgot all about Thomas and basked in her beauty. But in the end he was unsatisfied.

It was almost enough to drive him mad. It had driven him mad, several times; several lives wasted. Sometimes, he wondered if Thomas ever felt it, the driving need to be close to him, He wondered if Thomas ever felt the need.

Francis didn't think so.

Thomas loved freely, and without care. Thomas loved without being in love.

When he was done with Grace, he sent her back to the seraglio.

*****

It was cold and the moon was full the night Thomas tried to escape. Francis almost let him go; after all, he could have almost anyone he wanted, any time he wanted.

But as always, the perversity that was his nature stopped him. He couldn't turn his back from a challenge, even if that challenge was the death of him. He sent his men out to find him. Thomas eluded them for three days; Francis was too proud to be annoyed.

They brought Thomas into his study and tossed him on the floor, just like in the movies. And just like in the movies, he sent his men away, poured himself a glass of whiskey, and settled behind his desk.

"Don't you like my hospitality, Mr. Donati?"

Thomas slowly got to his feet and glared. "Your hospitality? You kidnapped me? You held me prisoner in your… your…"

"Harem. My harem." Francis took a sip of his drink, slowly savoring the flavor. "Isn't that what you wanted? After all, you've been asking a lot of questions about me. Don't look so surprised. I've been watching your career."

"I…" He swallowed hard, momentarily stunned. "May I have a drink?"

"Of course. Help yourself." He gestured to the bar. He waited until Thomas had his drink and was perched on the edge of a chair before he continued. "Why are you so interested in me?"

"You're the richest man in the world, and the most mysterious. No one has ever been able to pin you down."

Thomas wasn't a very good liar, except maybe to himself. They had that in common.

"You want to know my secrets?"

He smiled, charmingly. "Only some of them."

"That, I've done." Francis waved his hand towards the window. "I let you come here, didn't I?"

"It's not enough."

He laughed at that, he could have laughed until it hurt. "Greedy Thomas."

"Tom. Everyone calls me Tom." Thomas didn't like being laughed at: his face was red with anger.

"Oh, but Tom is a name for a child, or a hack writer. Thomas is the name of a respectable reporter. Besides," He deepens his voice, "Thomas suits you."

"I'm not gay."

"Do you think that matters to the universe, Thomas?" Francis swallowed down the rest of the whiskey in his glass to drown out the bitter taste in his mouth. "I'll give you a choice. I'm expecting the supply boat at the end of the week. I won't stop you from getting on it. Or you could stay here, but know this; the next supply run isn't scheduled for another six months. That's certainly enough time for a good reporter to find out some of my deep, dark secrets. Of course, if you stay, you agree to be a part of my harem."

Thomas's eyes grew wide and he looked so damn indignant. "I'm not a whore!"

"No, you're not, but this is my island, and therefore, you must live by my rules. Good night, Thomas." He could see the conflict in Thomas's body and for a moment he thought he'd have to worry for his life. But then Thomas regained his dignity, oh, he always had that in excess, finished his drink, thanked him, and walked out.

Two weeks later, Francis invited Thomas to his rooms. Thomas's first words as he entered the sitting room were, "I am not going to have sex with you."

They played chess instead.

*****

"Why?" Thomas stared out the window and shivered. It was a cold night, made even more miserable by a storm.

"Why?" Francis looked up from the chessboard. "You'll have to be more specific."

"Why? Why this?" He had a lost look on his face.

"I always wanted my own tropical island."

"That's not what I meant!" Thomas stalked back over to the table and threw himself in the chair; he did know how to sulk.

"If you don't know, then it's not time for you to understand." Francis gave Thomas one of *his* charming smiles; he didn't buy it for a moment.

"That is the most infuriating sentence you've ever said to me."

"Well, it's only fair."

"How so?" he asked, his voice going low with puzzlement.

"You're the most annoying man I've ever met." Francis leaned in. "Have sex with me."

"No!" Thomas was out of his chair and across the room in a flash.

He tried not to let the disappointment eat at him; he had all the time in the world, if the past was an indicator. "Very well. Good night, Thomas."

*****

There were times when Francis wanted to tell him they had done this before, a dozen times. At night, he would close eyes and remember the delicious push-pull of desire and personality.

The smell of candles burning, the curtains billowing in the breeze, and Thomas's skin damp with sweat as he stretched out on the bed. Tasting that skin, exploring the texture with his tongue and fingers.

He could remember the sounds Thomas made when they writhed against one another and the sleep-heaviness of his body when he was sated.

All this Francis could conjure up with a thought. And it took every bit of his willpower not to share.

*****

"Why don't you ever talk about your family?" Thomas stretched out next to him in the sand, his eyes hidden by sunglasses.

"What is there to say?" He smiled and dug his toes into the warm sand. "I left home as soon as I could and never looked back."

"Yes, but… But why?"

"They beat me and locked me in a room under the stairs. It was all very tragic," he said in his dullest voice.

Thomas gave an exasperated sigh.

Francis turned on his side and grinned down at him. "You're horrible at this. You should seduce me and make me fall in love with you. With my money, you could hire someone who is actually good at it to do these interrogations."

A smile played on Thomas's lips. "For a man who's trying to get me into bed, you're not being very nice."

"Yes, you look devastated."

"Oh, I am." He flipped over onto his belly and pillowed his head on his arms. "Put sunscreen on my back."

Francis raised an eyebrow, but picked up the sunscreen. "You want me to rub my hands all over you?"

"No, I want you to rub sunscreen on my back. It's part of my secret plan to lower your defenses."

"Oh, well, in that case." He squirted some of the cold sunscreen onto Thomas's back, making him yelp in surprise. Then he slowly began to rub it into his skin. It felt… familiar: warm, smooth skin, the flex of his muscles as he tensed and relaxed, the curve of his shoulder.

Familiar, but also not. He discovered three freckles in the shape of a pyramid on Thomas's right shoulder blade. Before he could stop himself, he leaned down and pressed his lips to it. He felt Thomas tense, but he made no move to pull away. Instead Thomas whispered his name.

Francis closed his eyes and breathed deep: something for something. Damn it, Thomas could still play the game. "It's nothing tragic. I'm one of eight children; the second oldest. There wasn't enough to go around. Not enough room or money or food. Attention. So I left."

He left and made sure that he would never be without again.

*****

"You're Francis Drake." Thomas's face was white with shock when he staggered into the room.

For a split second, he considered pretending to misinterpret Thomas's words, but only for a second. He had been waiting weeks for this revelation. "*Sir* Francis Drake, actually. I was knighted."

"Knighted? Knighted! You had me beheaded, you bastard!" Thomas threw a crystal tumbler at him. Thankfully, Thomas threw like a drunken sailor.

"Yes, yes, I did." He found it was better to be honest when it came to his transgressions. "I'm sorry." And to lie when it came to his regrets.

"You're sorry." Thomas collapsed onto the floor and stared up at him. "You're Francis Drake."

It was infuriating the way he always forgot the 'sir.' He went to pour Thomas a drink. "Yes, I'm Sir Francis Drake. What triggered your memory?"

Thomas didn't speak until he had a tumbler of whiskey. "Some of the girls were watching that penguin documentary."

Francis shook his head and said, softly, "Always the damn penguins."

"W-what?"

"Never mind." He offered Thomas a hand up and got him into a chair. "Have some more whiskey."

"Trying to get me drunk so you can have your way with me?" Thomas gave him a watery smile.

"Yes, that's it. I like the pale, sweaty look." He poured more whiskey into Thomas's tumbler, then had a bit himself.

"I'm going to have sex with you, aren't I?"

"Is that what you're worried about?" He had to admit, that surprised him. "That's not usually your first question."

"I'm trying to spice up our relationship. Now answer the damn question and pass over that bottle."

"Yes. And the sex will be perfect. As for the rest of it…" He shrugged. "You'll grow bitter and I'll grow distant or I'll grow bitter and you'll grow distant. Either way, it'll be a disaster. Who knows? Maybe you'll kill me this time."

Thomas shuddered at that. "Then why do we do it?"

"The universe doesn't give us much of a choice. But to be fair to the universe, we don't give ourselves much of a choice either. Blood ties are the strongest, and we've spilled a lot of each others' blood."

"Well, then we should probably get it over with, shouldn't we?" Thomas lurched to his feet and began to unbutton his shirt; his hands shook.

"Thomas. Thomas, stop." Why did it always have to be this way? Why couldn't they have one life where the blood didn't get in the way? "You're not gay."

"No, but evidently I'm bisexual. Imagine that." Thomas almost seemed to choke on his words

Francis moved towards him and grabbed his wrists. "Stop, just stop. I don't want this and neither do you. Just go back to the seraglio and rest; you've had a bad shock."

"No!" Thomas tore away from him. "No, I want to leave. I want to leave this house. I want to leave this island. I want to leave you!"

He closed his eyes and clenched his hands, fighting the urge to strike out, to hurt. It took a very long time before his anger decreased enough to let him speak. When he opened his eyes, he could see that Thomas was terrified. That helped even more. "All right. I'll… I'll arrange it. Now you better go."

Thomas nodded, once, and slowly backed away.

When the door closed and he was alone, he broke every piece of furniture in the room and ground the chess pieces to dust.

*****

It was his fortieth birthday and Francis didn't know half the people at his own party. They were all friends of acquaintances or companions of business associates he only ever dealt with over the phone or by email.

No matter. Francis laughed and drank and joked and was immensely charming. It was sickening and he was ready for the night to be over.

Then he walked in, just like in the damn movies, he walked in with a beautiful woman on his arm and a charming smile on his face. Thomas had something to prove. Yes, of course he did. He wasn't gay and he'd left the horrible months he'd spent in the harem behind him.

Oh, Thomas, he thought, you should have stayed away. But Thomas underestimated the power that blood had on the both of them. He always did. Francis was just about to turn away, when Thomas met his gaze and purposefully headed toward him. Ah, well, if that's the way he wanted to play the game, who was Francis to stop it. As if anyone could.

Irresistible force meet immoveable object.

It's a good thing he liked explosions.

"Thomas," he said, "I'm glad you were able to make it."

"Of course, I did. I wouldn't have missed this for the world." Thomas was angry, but hiding it as best he could. "Daphne du Bois, I would like you to meet Frank Dragoni. Frank, Daphne is my fiancée"

Ah, of course. Yes, of course. He took Daphne's hand and kissed it. "Congratulations, Thomas. You're a lucky man."

Daphne blushed charmingly. "Thank you, Mr. Dragoni. And thank you for inviting us to this party. It's just lovely."

"Well, Thomas and I go back a long time." He glanced at Thomas and smirked. "And, please, call me Frank. All my friends do."

"Thank you, Frank." Oh, she was gorgeous. She was the sort of woman who was made even more beautiful because of her naivety. Thomas had no right to bring her into their brutal game.

"Ah, if you'll both excuse me, I think I see my lawyer beckoning. You know lawyers; impatient, horrible creatures." He smiled and Daphne laughed. "But please, enjoy yourself: eat, drink, and dance."

"Thank you, Frank." Thomas's voice was cold.

He laid his hand on Thomas's face. "For you, anything."

*****

The party had been going on for five hours when he decided he needed a break. He went upstairs and stood on the balcony, breathing in the fresh air and watching his guests' liaisons in the garden. There was a snick as the balcony doors were closed.

"Where's your fiancée?" He leaned against the railing and stared up at the stars.

"I sent her home. She was drunk and tired." Thomas stood next to him, their shoulders brushing.

"She's a lovely woman, Thomas. You're a lucky man."

Thomas waved away his words. "I brought you a gift."

"You did?" Francis couldn't help it; he was delighted by the thought. "What did you bring me?"

"I can't tell you, you have to open it." Thomas reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small, slender box tied with a red velvet ribbon.

Francis took the box eagerly, tugged off the bow, and pulled off the lid. Oh. A brass telescope, like the ones sailors used to use. "It's… It's lovely, Thomas. Thank you."

He lifted it out of the box and looked through it at the stars. For the first time in years, he felt at peace. Then Thomas whispered his name, and there was something there, some unknown emotion that made him take notice. He put away the telescope and turned to him.

"I love Daphne. I love her and I'm going to marry her." Thomas stared out at the sky.

"All right."

"No, it's not all right. It's not." Thomas looked over at him, and his face was flushed, his eyes were wild. "I can't stop thinking about you. My dreams, my fantasies, even when Daphne and I… I have to stop myself from calling out your name. I love Daphne. I love her!"

But you belong to me, he wanted to say. He didn't say it. Instead, Francis grabbed Thomas by the arm and dragged him out towards his bedroom. He knew what Thomas wanted; it disgusted and excited him.

Francis threw Thomas on his bed and locked the door. The party was so noisy, no one would hear them. He tossed a tube of lubricant on the bed and a length of silk rope.

Thomas made no move to leave, made no move to struggle: his face was flushed and he was panting. His hungry gaze followed Francis around the room.

They should have done this months ago. Francis slowly undressed, hanging up his clothing, giving Thomas ample time to change his mind and walk out the door. But he didn't, he never did. When he was naked, he straddled Thomas and smiled down at him. Then, he grabbed Thomas's wrists and tied them to the slats of the headboard with the rope.

"Now you can't escape from me, Thomas. And if you scream, I will gag you." Francis chuckled. "I do like you helpless."

In a shattered, tremulous voice, Thomas spoke, softly, "I love Daphne."

"Perhaps. But your soul needs me. And your body," he rubbed himself against Thomas's groin, pulling a groan from him, "wants me. I'm going to strip you, Thomas. Then I'm going to kiss and suck and lick every inch of you, until you beg me to fuck you. When you go back to that pretty little fiancée of yours, you'll be dripping with my come. And when you fuck her, you'll remember what it's like to be filled by a hard, hot cock."

That drove Thomas wild. He closed his eyes, moaning softly, and rubbed himself against Francis's body.

"Whore," he said fondly, and slipped his hands under Thomas's clothes. He touched Thomas, fondled his nipples, slid his palms across his belly, raked his nail down his back, then slipped a hand down his trousers to trace the curve of his buttocks. All the while Thomas moaned and writhed like a whore, stuttering out Francis's name like a desperate prayer.

Francis's desire was painful. He wanted to shove down Thomas's trousers and just fuck him, hard and fast and dirty. He knew that Thomas would love it. Thomas loved everything they'd done together, no matter how degrading or perverse. But he had meant what he said; he wanted to know Thomas's body.

He stripped him with infinite care, running his hands over exposed flesh, nipping at pale skin, licking at scars. Oh, and Thomas was ready, so ready: he arched his back, spread his legs, opened his mouth to Francis's kisses, and his cock bobbed, dripping precome onto his belly.

Thomas's thighs were hairy and Francis left reddened bruises on them to match the ones around his nipples. Then, when Thomas told him he was going crazy, Francis rolled him over onto his belly and buried his face between Thomas's buttocks.

Thomas let out a wild cry, pushing back against Francis's fucking tongue, then grinding his cock against the sheets. "Francis, please! Please, please, please! I can't, I can't! Fuck me, please fuck me, Francis. Have mercy! Please, have mercy!"

Francis was a merciful man, the years had taught him that much. He greased his cock and shoved into the man he loved. This wasn't peace. This was war, it always was. He bit Thomas's shoulders and neck, fucking hard and fast, filling the empty spaces with pleasure.

And Thomas, Thomas loved it. He jerked at his bonds, riding the thrusts, urging Francis on with filthy endearments.

Beautiful Thomas, lovely Thomas, *his* Thomas.

After they'd both come and he looked down at that sweaty, sated face, he decided. He knew what he had to do. He stroked his thumb against Thomas's temple, until he fell asleep. When Thomas woke up, he would be on the island once again, this time in Francis's bed, where he belonged.


End file.
